“Milo! Get your sorry ass over here.”
As he had for years now, Milo drowned out his secretary’s clarion call, focusing instead on the rain beating against his window. Just another beautiful day in Manehattan . . . His eyes fell to the ominous, onyx building, looming over the city like the very shadow of death. Perhaps it was. Everypony who dared cross Storm Scribe ended up the same. Just another name on his case file, just another number for the city coroners . . .
He nearly jumped out of his mouldering chair when Quill slammed the door open. From her pleading expression, she had yet another case to try and make him take. Great . . . just great . . . “Whose poor flower shop do I have to save today, Quill?”
The navy mare strode over to him, slamming a heavy file on his desk so violently Milo feared it might fall over; it had last week. He raised an eyebrow. “Well?”
“Re-read it, sir,” she said shakily.
Reluctantly, he opened it and stopped short after the first few words. ‘Alto versus Scribe.’ He pushed the file back without reading another sentence. “Hell no.”
“You didn’t—”
“I don’t have the resources and that family doesn’t have the money to pursue a case against Storm Scribe or his damned company!”
“It’s not against Storm Scribe, Milo!” She spat, pushing the file back to him. “It’s against Rory Scribe. Rory Scribe personally. Not his father nor the company.”
Milo’s heart skipped a beat as it always did when he heard the name. Rory . . . Why? Why was it always his name that came up? He pulled the file closer, examining it with a practiced eye. “She’s looking for an out-of-court settlement?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Does she realize how unlikely it is she’ll get one?”
“She is aware, however,” Quill bit her lip, “with two children to raise on her own . . . they need money, sir.”
“And you think Rory has any money to give them?”
Quill gaped at him as if he had lost his mind. “Sir? He’s the treasurer for Scribe Incorporated! I am most certain he has money.”
“Are you now?” Milo knew Storm Scribe, knew him better than any pony in all of Equestria. In his line of work, the knowledge, however distasteful, was a necessity. That cold-blooded snake would bathe in his son’s blood if he thought it would extend his own sorry life. “I doubt Storm Scribe hires his son for a reasonable rate, Quill. Think about it,” he growled, tapping a hoof on his desk. “Storm Scribe runs his entire life by coercion and fear. He is greed itself. Do you really think he’d pay Rory a fair rate when he could just as easily scare him into complete submission?”
“I . . . I . . . Sir, I’m certain the amount Alto is requesting is more than affordable. Even if he were a middle-aged accountant working a grunt job.”
Milo sighed. You just don’t get it do you? “We’ll be prodding a snake with this one, Quill . . .”
“I know, sir. But it’s worth it,” she said it with that kind of whole-hearted confidence he had never been able to place. No matter the situation, Quill remained the steady rock of unwavering loyalty and determination. Even Storm Scribe himself had been unable to break her.
Shaking the thought away, he turned back to the file. “Inform Alto that I will be taking the case.”
“Yes sir. Thank you sir.”
Milo dismissed her with a wave of his hoof. After glancing over the mare’s case, he turned back to the window and worked through the questions. Whenever it rained, they came, as sure and steady as the drops against the pane. What if? What if he had simply said no? What if he had had the courage to stand up to her? What if . . . what if he had never run away?
His focus returned to the cases. He would hold on another day, as he had time and time again. The truth would reveal itself soon enough. After that, he could finally start to forgive himself . . .
“We’ve got a big problem, Boss!”
Rory flinched at both Pinkie’s earsplitting voice and the unwelcome nickname. Ever since their conversation a week ago, she had insisted on calling him ‘Boss’ as if he were the head of some crime syndicate like Dufaux. He looked up from the lounge to stare at the panting pink mare in the center of his office. Judging from her disheveled mane and shaking limbs, she had come at a run.
His immediate thoughts jumped to Dufaux’s thugs in the alley. Forgetting his situation, he shot to his hooves to examine her. Unfortunately, his weakened limbs gave way underneath him and he collapsed to the carpet. He glanced up at Pinkie as she cantered over. “Are you—are you okay, Pinkie?”
“Of course I’m okay, silly. Ooooh! You thought I was hurt . . .” Her expression softened, morphing into one of concern as her hooves stroked his back gently. “Are you okay? You really shouldn’t get up like that, Boss.”
Rory had given up trying to get her to stop with the insipid nickname. Gritting his teeth, he attempted to stand. But, his front limbs were far too weak to push himself upright, especially with the splint. The resulting pain caused him to cry out. He felt Pinkie yank him to his hooves, bearing some of the weight with her chest. After getting him to lie back down, she took a few steps back, scooping up a few papers she had dropped. “Sorry . . . I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s nothing like . . . nothing like before, promise.”
He eyed the papers, recognizing the document type. “A court case?”
“Sorta . . . her lawyer wants to settle outside of court.”
“Really?” Rory motioned her to place the file down and he began to read. His heart sunk after the first few lines. Farthing . . . The guilt that washed over him as he continued. “A hundred and fifty bits, eh? For funeral expenses?” He bit his lip, eyes darting from his secretary to the rain-pounded streets below.
Though he might have argued if the situation were any different, Rory had to pity the mare. Widowed and left with two mouths to feed, likely blacklisted due to Father. All this pain and suffering because of one simple screw up on his part. Because he couldn’t stomach a little pain . . .
As far as he was concerned, Alto had every right to that money and more. Unfortunately, even the paltry sum she requested would be difficult to come by; he scarcely had money for rent as is. Sighing, he jerked his head to the desk. “Get the checkbook, Miss Pie. The smaller one.”
“Right-o, Boss!” She pranced over, withdrawing the checkbook and presenting it to him like a royal scepter.
Chuckling at her theatrics, he took it and began to write. Somehow he would manage; he always managed. Paying for Farthing’s funeral could never erase what he did, but it did ease the guilt somewhat. After quickly scrawling out the appropriate sum, he gave the book back to her. “See to it she’s taken care of, Miss Pie. And,” he paused, considering, “send my sincerest condolences.”
“Yes, Boss,” she whispered, ears lowering.
“What’s wrong?”
“No-nothing . . . Just, it’s so wrong.” She searched his eyes, then looked away. “He had a family to take care of and he just . . . up and left. Without . . .” Pinkie gulped, running a hoof across the letter, “Without even telling her goodbye . . .”
“It’s difficult, yes. But, we cannot know what went through his mind, Pinkie. There is a chance he slipped, you know.” No chance in Tartarus. Still, he had the unexplainable urge to sugar-coat it for her. To let her hold onto an iota of that naive optimism she so treasured.
Pinkie nodded, slinking out of the office. “See you later, Boss.”
“Later, Miss Pie.”
From her brief stint in Manehattan, Pinkie had come to not only accept rude behavior, but to expect it. That being said, she demanded at least some semblance of courtesy within her office. She had learned and even perfected the art of asking for said courtesy in the past few weeks. It gave her just the smallest bit of confidence. And, in the cold world of corporate Manehattan, confidence meant everything. So, when the doors to her office flew open with a cacophonous bang, she determined not to let the breach go unpunished.
Just as she made towards the door, a tall onyx unicorn strode inside. Her immediate impression was that of a shadowy crow. The instant her eyes met his, she froze. Never in all her life had she seen eyes like that. Cold. A forgotten shell where one’s soul should be. They pierced deeper and deeper, drawing her in like a neverending night.
Pinkie had heard Maud talk about her “sense.” How she knew when ponies were bad or when they were to be avoided. A part of her always wondered what it felt like. Now she knew and every fiber of her being wished she didn’t. Bad did not even come close. This pony was downright evil.
Try as she may to stand bold as always, she felt her hairs bristled and hocks quiver as he looked away and headed to the door. Oh no. I can’t let him see Mr. Scribe! Before her mind could catch up to her gut, she found herself standing between the pony and her employer’s door. “Stop! You don’t have an appointment. You’ll have to come back later.”
For the briefest of instants, Pinkie imagined she had won as the stallion gaped at her. Then, his ears lowered, eyes becoming more heartless if that was even possible. “Step aside, scum.”
Scum? Just who does he think he is? Pinkie stamped her hoof so hard the clap echoed around the office despite the carpeting. “You come into my office and tell me to step aside! I don’t think so, bubba.” Okay, admittedly her insults needed work, but that did not warrant what came next.
Without word or warning, he surrounded her in his emerald magic and levitated her into the air like a ragdoll. For the briefest moment, he just sneered at her, then slammed her into the filing cabinet with a force to rival one of her father’s kicks. The wind instantly left her lungs as a shock of pain rocketed down her spine.
She looked up to see him glowering at her, ears pinned. “Know your place,” he snarled.
Just as he stepped towards the door, it swung open. Mr. Scribe glanced at the stranger, then around the room. His face grew white when he looked her in the eyes. Then he rounded on her attacker. Pinkie had to give the stallion credit. Despite having what amounted to two broken legs, he still managed to pull off an illusion of power and authority. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing!? Pinkie was just doing her job.”
The stallion stood up straighter, glowering at Mr. Scribe as if he were a particularly loathsome bottom dweller. “That bitch? Her job’s of no consequence to me. I doubt very much her ‘patrons’ will care if I damage the goods a bit.”
‘Patrons?’ Then Pinkie put two and two together. He’s calling me a floozy?! She tried to stand, but found herself too winded to move.
Thankfully, Mr. Scribe did all the moving for her. His hind hoof kicked at the wall so hard it left a crater. “Don’t you dare talk about her like that!”
“My my? Is he upset?” the stranger jeered. “You can’t tell me you’re not a little put out. Hoping to get an in with the secretary, Rory?”
“Leave her out of this! Or did you come here to insult my secretary and impede your precious work?”
He rolled his eyes. “As if you and that whore do any work of import. Still, you are correct. I had a most intriguing letter arrive at my desk today. A check written by you for some pathetic jumper’s widow.”
I sent that to the mailbox! How’d it end up on his desk?
“That ‘pathetic jumper’ was a good pony. Not that you’d give a damn . . .” Rory snarled.
“You were going to hand her over funds just like that?”
“It was a hundred and fifty bits, for Celestia’s sake! And it was my money. You had no business going through my mail.”
The unicorn said nothing, though his muscles tensed slightly. “It is my business when my son decides to threaten the reputation of Scribe Incorporated by kowtowing to some loathsome wench!”
Pinkie’s heart stopped cold. No way. No way in Tartarus! This was Mr. Scribe’s father? This was Storm Scribe? She did not know what she expected from a stallion who tortured his own child, but he had set a new low. How could anypony act like that and get off scot free?
Rory’s reply broke her reverie like a hammer to glass. “She has two foals to feed! Have a heart for once in your life.”
“A heart? Really, Rory, what twisted logic led you to think me capable of having a heart?” Storm Scribe barked a mirthless, hollow laugh that chilled her blood. “Nopony ever got ahead in life for having a heart, Rory. They get ahead by staying their course and to hell with the rest of them. Now,” he jerked his head to the desk, “you will write to that pompous attorney and demand to see him in court. I will send Prescott to deal with the details.”
“It’s a hundred and fifty bits, Father! The court fees alone will be more than that.”
Storm Scribe sniffed haughtily. “It is the pride of Scribe Incorporated that is at stake.”
Rory lowered his voice until she could barely make out the words. “No, it’s your pride that’s at stake. Couldn’t have my empathy staining your reputation, now could we?”
“You had best watch your tone, boy,” he stated with such a flat finality even she cringed. “That leg of yours didn’t break on its own. Don’t think you’ve outsmarted me. This city belongs to me.”
Without another word, he glided out of the office, slamming the door behind him with his magic.
The instant he had gone, Mr. Scribe hurried over to her as fast as his legs would allow. She could not help but feel a tinge of fear as he glanced down at her. If he had been raised by that . . . thing, there was no telling what he might do. She forced the thought back as best she could. He’s not the same pony, Pinkie. “Sor—sorry, Boss.”
“Why are you apologizing?” His normally level voice cracked ever so slightly. “It’s my fault . . . I should have warned you. I—”
“It’s nopony’s fault but Storm Scribe’s.” Pinkie got shakily to her hooves, noting how weak his own were. “Are you okay?”
“I should be asking you that.” Rory lifted his bent hoof, likely to check her back, but nearly fell over as his opposite leg tried to catch the weight.
Pinkie caught him, helping the stallion steady himself.
His face grew red. “Sorry . . . I—I’m just . . . it’s hard, you know?”
“I know,” she breathed. “Come on, I’ll—I’ll help you to your office.” Pinkie bit back the fountain of questions she wanted to ask. There would be a time for questions. Right now they needed to focus on the bigger picture. A court case that didn’t need to take place . . . Storm Scribe’s threat . . . Too many variables and so little time. Survival here depended on assessing those variables and somehow putting them to work before another pony could. If you messed up, well, just pray you never do.
Ponies? ‘Friends?’ They were simply pawns, knights, bishops, and rooks. Nothing but pieces to sacrifice when it furthered your goal. That was the sick reality into which she had been thrown and from which there would be no escape.
The game huh? Guess that just about sums it up, Mr. Scribe. A sick, twisted game with a madpony making the rules.